Daddy Issues
by SchmidttenForever
Summary: Art gives Raylan his most challenging assignment yet. Tim/Raylan. NOT Slash. Warnings: Contains references to child abuse and some language. Spoilers for episode "Outlaw".


Hello, Justified fandom! I have been a Justified fan since the very beginning and I am just now getting around to writing my first one shot for it. Sad, I know. My love for Raylan, Tim, and friendship fics kind of got together and created a plot bunny and BAM! This happened. I hope you guys like it :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Justified or the characters in any way. Unfortunately. If I did, Tim would've been shirtless in an episode by now. Just sayin.

Warnings: A few swear words and references to child abuse.

* * *

"Hey, Raylan! Get your ass in here for a second, will ya?"

With a sigh, Raylan Givens stood from his chair, ignoring the protest coming from his aching muscles as he did so. "_God, when did I get so old?_"The cowboy mused to himself.

As he strode to Chief Deputy Art Mullen's office, Raylan briefly filtered through the past few days. Who had he pissed off, shot, or threatened as of late that would warrant a lecture from Art? Unfortunately, several instances came to mind.

Raylan entered the familiar office, positioning himself in his usual leaning stance against the door frame, "What's up, Art?" he asked.

The elder marshal folded his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair. "I've gotta job for you. Unless, of course, you're too busy." Art proposed, his usual teasing ever so present in his voice.

Raylan rolled his eyes in response. Art knew very damn well that Raylan had been sitting on his ass all day, bored out of his mind. "Well?" he questioned, prompting Art to continue.

"You're going to the bar."

Raylan raised his eyebrows at this, unable to stop himself from smirking a bit. Lord knew he was always up for a trip to the bar, but why was Art sending him there…on the clock?

"I need you to go talk to Tim." Art said, growing more serious.

"Tim? Why the hell am I going to the bar to talk to Tim right now?" Raylan asked, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"Today is the anniversary of his daddy's death and I'm a bit concerned about him. His phone shows that he's been nowhere but the bar today. It ain't good for a man to be alone, drunk off his ass, on a day like this." Art explained. Genuine concern was evident in the chief's features. He had always teased the hell out of his marshals and feigned lighthearted disdain for them, but it was no secret that he worried plenty about them and cared for them like the descent father none of them had been privileged enough to actually have.

Raylan put one finger up and opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He was more confused than he had ever been. Why would it even matter if Tim had a few too many drinks? He came close to pointing out that Art himself handed out enough drinks from his stash every night to possibly report him for encouraging alcoholism. However, the nagging worry that such nightly rituals would discontinue if he said something to Art stopped Raylan from broaching that topic. He sure as hell liked that Pappy Van Winkle. As for the fact that he obviously tracked the three of them via their phones…Raylan would question that later.

"Back up a minute here, my heart aches for Tim, it surely does, but why am I the one that has to go talk to him?" Raylan questioned.

The senior marshal leaned back in his chair once again and simply shrugged, "Cuz his daddy was an asshole and your daddy was an asshole. Go bond".

* * *

The scent was oh, so familiar and, to be honest, very tempting, but Raylan had promised Art that he himself would not drink. Shaking his head as if to ward off the inviting smell of alcohol, Raylan strode through the crowds of people in the dark bar and made his way to the counter. He soon spotted his colleague, seated on a barstool, shoulders hunched over, with a beer. The kid was not even drinking anything strong for heaven's sake!

Casually, Raylan took a seat beside his friend, who did not even look up. The sniper looked deep in contemplation, blue-gray eyes staring at the frothy pint before him as he traced the top of the glass with his finger.

Raylan considered the young man next to him. Deputy US Marshal, sniper in the Afghan war, and highly skilled in both combat and marksmanship, Tim Gutterson was lethal. However, the man could look twelve years old sometimes -one of those times being right now. Despite being well over a decade older than Tim, Raylan still had the deepest respect for the fellow marshal. With his incessant (and sometimes annoying) deadpan remarks, sarcasm, and general light-heartedness, it was easy to forget that the young man had witnessed more traumatizing images, death, and destruction than most people his age. That's why this was not going to be easy for either one of them.

"Whatchya drinkin'?" Raylan asked, immediately wincing at his _lame_ choice of a conversation-starter.

Tim's gaze traveled ever so slowly from his drink, to the counter, and finally over to Raylan, not in the least startled to see the older marshal beside him. Hell, who was he kidding? The kid had probably known he was there before Raylan had walked through the door.

"What're you doin' here, Raylan?" Tim quietly drawled. He sounded far from pleased about the presence of the man next to him and Raylan tried not to take it to heart.

"Art's worried about you. Says it's the anniversary of your daddy's death." Raylan replied, not sugar coating anything in the slightest bit. It was best not to play games with Tim - he had quite the bullshit detector.

Tim raised his eyebrows and let out a chuckle, "No need to be worrying about me. You can go back to the office, Raylan." he replied, taking a long sip of his beer.

This was going to be harder than he thought. Sighing, Raylan repositioned himself on his barstool so his entire body was facing Tim. "I know what it is like, Tim. Feelin' guilty that you can't seem to muster up too much sadness over the fact that your daddy's in his grave. Most people don't understand it, ya know? Why the hell aren't you a mess o' tears and grave-side lamentations? Everyone's mourning the loss of a well-known man while you have nothing but memories of lectures and beatings." Raylan cleared his throat, struggling himself to be open about such things.

Tim still did not make eye contact with Raylan, but Raylan knew he was listening to every word he was saying. Silence hung between the two of them somewhat awkwardly and Raylan's craving for a beer of his own intensified.

Luckily, the sniper finally spoke. "He was a miserable bastard, and I have the hospital visit files to prove it. My momma was too focused on when she was gonna get her hands on the next box of smokes to even notice the holes in the walls and the constant broken glass all over her floors." Tim paused to take a deep breath and another long sip from his beer.

Raylan took this opportunity to remove his cowboy hat and rake his fingers through his hair. His heart ached with sympathy for Tim. If Raylan had not had his mother there for him during the time of Arlo's wrath, he probably would not have survived, even though she had been a victim of his father's violence, as well. Raylan braced himself for the rest of Tim's revelations.

Tim set his glass down and, out of habit, glanced at his watch. As he did so, Raylan could not help but notice the trembling of Tim's hands. It made Raylan's eyebrows furrow in worry for his friend, unable to not be slightly shaken by Tim's unusual vulnerability and upset. After a few more minutes of the intermission, Tim continued.

"When I was eighteen, I'd finally had enough. I decided to join the Rangers - not only for personal gain, but to be able to throw it back in that bastard's face that I wasn't the piece of shit that he told me every day that I was. It helped, too, that I knew it'd bother the hell outta him that, with my mother's recent departure, not only would he not have anyone to use as his punchin' bag, but I'd be off doing what he hated most - the right thing."

Tim fidgeted with the sleeves of his coat and carded his fingers through his wavy hair. "When I finally got back, I had a medal, scars, and a newfound appreciation for alcohol. I went straight to my daddy's house…only to discover that the miserable man had up and died on me. I…I would never be able to prove to him that after everything he had done and said to me, I turned out all right. It sucked." he finished, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he smiled sadly to himself.

Raylan was at a loss for words. The sound of country music, Hunter Hayes to be exact, and belligerent intoxicated morons kindly warded off what probably would have been inhumane silence. However, the lack of dialogue between the two of them now was…awkward. Raylan did not do well with awkward. He shifted this way and that, opening his mouth a few times but then closing it. For someone who tended to run at the mouth (and, yes, he was admitting that), he was struggling for words. He decided to stick with the basics.

"I'm sorry, Tim." Raylan said genuinely. He reached over and put his hand on the young man's back comfortingly. Tim instinctively flinched at the physical contact, the alcohol in his system only adding to how jumpy he was. No matter what he did, he could not stop the way his heart rate accelerated as anxiety weasled its way into his mind when it came to people touching him. It had taken months after he'd gotten back from the sandbox to train himself to just _breathe_ and neither reach for his weapon nor throw his arms over his head when someone brushed against him or, even worse, went to hug him. How about no?

Tim finally made eye contact with Raylan then, his eyes, shining with unshed tears, were filled with an appreciation that words by themselves could not express. Tim nodded and swallowed hard as Raylan gave his shoulder one last gentle squeeze.

Raylan gave Tim a smile and put his cowboy back on as he stood up. "I don't care what the Man Code or shit says, ya know. I'm always here if you need to talk, Tim – so long as long as you're buying the beer."

Tim let out a genuine laugh at this, a sound Raylan found he'd taken for granted. "Thank you, Raylan." Tim said appreciatively, becoming serious again.

Raylan began to walk away but stopped himself and turned around. "And, Tim?" he said. The younger marshal turned around at this and looked at him.

"It doesn't matter what the hell your daddy said to you, ya hear? Everyone knows what you did for this country and her people, and I'm proud to be workin' beside you." Raylan stated, and with a tip of his hat, he left.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed :) I'd love some reviews, but, remember, this is my first Justified fanfiction so please be gentle :) Also, if y'all let me know if you like it, it may just prompt me to write more!


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